


riverside

by vanillawg



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternative Universe - Human, Diners, Existential Crises, M/M, Music, Slow Burn, Sterek Glompfest, call centers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 16:43:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14116596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillawg/pseuds/vanillawg
Summary: Derek goes to Memphis in search of adventure, self-discovery or whatever.He finds a diner, instead.





	riverside

**Author's Note:**

> ok. lmfao. first of all : this only super vaguely follows the prompt. it's there alright, but there's also 13k of other stuff. it was a good prompt and thank you for it, but i realised about 10k in this would have been better suited to a crack fic and that's not what i was doing, nor what i was gonna turn back and do.  
> i haven't written anything in months and was pretty much just done with writing sterek, but my main man and love of my life isaac was awesome enough to do this event even though it was STRESSFUL to say the least . and i had to pull through so i signed up for this, and i'm back in my groove a bit i guess. or i didn't maybe !! EITHER WAY . here's a fic that's written after months of disuse of all of my two brain cells, so it might read like that. but at least it'll read like something.

Derek had sat on the patio a few months back, staring out into the preserve, and felt the sun beat down on him. He was warm to the bone, and listening to his mom in the kitchen when he decided to leave California.

“Derek,” his mom had called, “come and grate some cheese for me.”

He closed his eyes for a moment before pushing himself up. It felt like a herculean task, and he realized then how goddamn tired he was. Derek grated some cheese, and turned to her, and said, “I’m leaving.”

Beacon Hills had grown tired of him.

So he’d moved on a whim. He’d chosen Memphis because he was chasing the sound of jazz, or something – it sounded cool when he’d told his family, like some great adventure, but truthfully Derek has never been able to stand jazz; all the odd, clashing notes and the loudness and weirdness of it all. It just goes on and on and on.

Maybe he was just following suit with his sisters; Cora was in Puerto Rico, or Chile, or wherever her new nomadic lifestyle (and boyfriend) feels like taking her, and Laura’s decided to ‘find herself’ by backpacking through Europe, experiencing how the _other side_ live by staying in hostels and eating meals out of tins made for her by the fun new friends she’s making in the clubs, or by the side of the street, or wherever she feels like picking up strays –

(“It’s, like, a totally organic way of life,” Laura had said to him when she’d found a payphone – not that she didn’t have her actual phone on her, but the payphone was all part of the disconnected lifestyle, or whatever. “It’s an experience. I feel like, I don’t know, my soul has been cleansed or something. Like I’ve shed my industrialised skin with all the – the – the __soot__ and the __oil__ and gone back to the _old way of living._ Travelling, talking to strangers, having no plan – you should try it, for sure.”

“Uh huh, yeah,” Derek had replied.)

– and maybe he was a little bit jealous. He’d always been the stay at home one, the runt of the litter, and maybe the years of following the rules had led him to this total mental break, but he’d had it, and this was what was left in the aftermath of that. And he’d found the poster while he was wandering around the city, looking for something interesting, and the lights from the street lamps had reflected off of the wet roads and cast the city and the people in it in a strange haze, an orange glow that made Derek want to __find__ something, made him feel like maybe there was something a little more to the city than the concrete and the jazz and the food.

And he’d found the poster, and it had felt like something important. Like maybe he’d help someone, or meet some interesting people, or something like that.

It didn’t really work out like that.

“That’s – you–” Derek clenches his jaw. He couldn’t believe some people were actually – would actually – “I would – __strongly__ – urge you to seek emergency assistance, sir. Would you like me to call an ambulance to your address?”

The other side of the line falls silent. Derek wonders if the guy’s died. Then: _“Yes, I, well. Yes, please.”_ __Yes please__ , Derek thinks, __yes fucking please__. Memphis has, at least, given him a little reprieve from the boredom: now Derek wants to kill himself out of sheer frustration, instead. It’s good to keep some variety in life, or whatever.

“I can’t believe this,” he mutters darkly.

“ _Pardon?”_

“I said an ambulance is on its way now,” likely, the phones that they used were taken from the Mississippi, and the connection sounds like something out of a horror movie; the guy won’t have any problem believing that that’s exactly what Derek just said. “Just stay on the line to me until they arrive, please–” and he reaches behind the computer screen to grab the pad of conversation starters Becky made for him – “Just in case you actually have to, like, talk to them,” she’d explained, “we don’t want them to actually kill themselves, because they were stuck on line with you. Or worse. Like, hang up, or something.” – and starts reading out the first one.

Becky – the girl who always switches shifts with Derek – thinks that Paris Hilton is, like, totally her spirit animal, you know? Her handwriting is round and loopy, with hearts dotting her i’s and glitter pens that leave Derek covered in the stuff for hours. She puts stickers on everything – the pad is covered in tiny little gem ones, and the computer itself (more evidence for the time traveller theory, because it looks like it’s been dragged out of 1984) has bubble stickers of butterflies and the Power Puff Girls. The desk itself has a pot of fake flowers – because there’s maybe sunlight in the call room for all of two minutes in the afternoon, because the windows face the side of a much taller brick building that sometimes Derek imagines flinging himself from the roof off of – and a wooden carving of Buddha.

Derek’s grateful to her, a little, because he manages to keep the guy on the line until the ambulance gets there, and gets to end the call with, “Hope to never hear from you again,” and not get fired for saying it.

∞

There’s only ever one or two people on shift when Derek is – Becky’s one of the ones that takes the last reasonable shift. Derek, though, he likes walking through the streets when it’s three, four, five in the morning; it’s quiet, the last notes of saxophones and double basses hanging in the air for just a little too long. There’s hardly ever anyone else around; maybe someone taking a walk, or standing on a street corner. Sometimes, Derek can hear the strings of an argument somewhere.

There’s a diner that’s out of his way, but it’s got good coffee, and it’s cheap. _Bee’s_ is authentic in a way that nothing in Beacon Hills ever was – and that, and that was something he couldn’t stand about it – in that it’s not styled to look like it’s from the 40’s. Derek’s pretty sure that it hasn’t had a significant refurbishment since it was first established – __since 1939!__ the sign proudly announces – but it’s… it’s nice, with red and white linoleum tiles and worn leather booths. There’s a jukebox against the right wall that quietly plays Sinatra, and framed posters of different movies and bands – The Godfather (but the ‘o’ has a Ramones patch taped over it), and Star Wars, and Soft Cell – with vinyl records taped to the walls and a string of paper lanterns, and behind the counter there’s a wall covered in photos of people, of customers and employees, and celebrities and strangers off the street.

Behind the counter, also, is Stiles. Bee’s is a late night diner, and closes every morning at six. Stiles – Stiles, Stiles, Stiles, who paints his nails and puts too much gel in his hair – always works this shift, when Derek comes in, and lets him stay until closing. He doesn’t know why: it’s not like, really, they talk a lot. Mostly, Derek just comes in, and eats his food and drinks his coffee, and lingers, because Stiles lets him, and sometimes talks to him, and never expects anything in return.

He’s never even told Stiles his name. Stiles has never even told Derek his name; it’s written in green gel pen on a cheap name tag, with a spaceship sticker in the corner.

Derek lingers, sometimes.

Stiles looks up from where he’s wiping down one of the tables when Derek walks in, the bell chiming, and shoots him a quick smile. There’s another guy, old, and his skin looks like leather, who sits at one end of the bar and wears a green cardigan. There’s a mug in front of him. Derek looks at him for a moment – he smells like dust, and a thousand other people – before sliding into one of the booths, just a little away from the windows and the door. At this hour, there aren’t any menus out – Stiles will put them out if someone asks for them, but no one’s asking any more – so Derek picks at his nails, awkward and uncomfortable.

He never has to wait long; soon there’s a cup of coffee in front of him on a little tray, with two small tin pots, dented and crudely reshaped, over and over. Derek never asks for sugar and cream, but Stiles always gives it to him anyway. It’s a little weird. But – it’s good. Maybe it’s a southern thing, to know like that.

Stiles is standing over him, grinning down at him. He’s got a rag tucked into his belt that’s making his red apron damp, and spray tucked under the nook of his arm. He’s always so happy to see Derek.

Derek wonders why. He might be the only one in this whole fucking state.

“How’s my favorite patron?” Stiles asks. He’s comfortable in this diner; the way he holds himself, and his accent, Derek could almost think he has a bed built into the kitchen, that he’s part of the furniture here, except nothing about Stiles is quite static – he’s alive in a way Derek doesn’t think he’ll ever be, or anyone else. It makes Derek – god, it makes Derek _something_ , makes him think of that itch under his skin he tried to run away from when he moved away from California in the first fucking place. Likely, Stiles is exactly what Derek’s trying to be, even though he works closing shifts in a quiet diner that’s too out of the way to ever busy, but just enough to get the traffic that it needs. Likely, Stiles spends hours in this diner, cleaning the same tables and tiles over and over again, making the same coffee and grilled cheese, and yet –

– and yet Derek is incredibly, profoundly jealous of him. There must be something else to it, Derek thinks. He wishes that he knew. He wishes that he knew Stiles at all.

The guy at the bar turns around slightly. “I thought that I was your favorite, huh?” he says. His voice sounds just like the jazz Derek hears when he walks home at night. It’s rough, sure, like the guy’s teeth and lungs have taken a good hit or two, but there’s – there’s an element to it that Derek hasn’t quite figured out, yet.

Stiles snorts and rolls his eyes, leaning into Derek’s space like they’re sharing a secret. “Ignore him,” he says loudly, “he couldn’t tell a rock from his own head.”

The guy snorts, and turns back to his drink, muttering something under his breath about the ‘youth’. Stiles shoots him a smile, even though he can’t see, and turns back to Derek. “That’s Bernie,” he says. “He’s good people. Come up and sit with him, you know how old folks are – he’s got some sick stories.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. "Depends on what kind of sick."

Stiles just throws him a lopsided grin, and starts wiping down the table next to Derek. “Think about it, dude,” he carries on. “You’re always here on your own. You’d get on with Bernie. He’s a cab driver, you know.” Stiles starts scrubbing aggressively at a stain. Derek thinks it might be tar, by the way Stiles screws up his face, biting his lip. And Derek notices. Oh boy, does he notice. “They always got the best stories, meeting new people an’ shit. It’s good.”

Derek looks at Stiles for a long time, then. Watches the furrow between his brows vanish when he finally, finally gets that fucking stain out, and listens to the way he mutters to himself as he wipes down the rest of the tables, and listens to the faint hum of conversation when he makes his way over to the bar.

∞

Bernie leaves, after a while, with a nod to Derek. The bell rings when he leaves, and Derek stares after the door shuts. It’s quiet in the diner, then, with Sinatra crooning softly in the background. Derek flicks through his Facebook for a little while, but it – but he doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to see Cora in Mexico, or Laura in Austria, or his mom or dad or Peter, or – or –

Stiles slides into the booth across from him, a pen and a folder in his hand. It’s purple, and bent and worn at the edges. He opens it, and is quick to scatter papers across the table. Derek draws his tray closer. “Sorry,” Stiles says quietly, distracted. “It gets lonely in the office, and you’re good company.” Derek snorts, and he looks indignant. “What? You are! You’re, like–” Stiles waves his hand about loosely, like he’s about to look at Derek and say, get it? and Derek won’t be able to do anything but nod and say, yeah, I get it.

Stiles taps the side of his nose, and looks smug. “I got a sense for this kinda thing, you know,” he says. “It’s like magic, or something. Show me anyone off the street and I could probably tell you if they’re, like, a serial killer or something.”

“I doubt that,” Derek says, “and you don’t know me.”

He just looks at Derek, and twists the pen between his fingers. “I wonder,” he says.

∞

Derek’s standing outside the office building, staring at the cigarette in his hand. It’s one of those days where going inside feels impossible, one of those goddamn days. He – fuck, Derek’s been in Memphis for a couple of months now, and he feels no different from how he did in California. There is – there’s a lot that he’s looking for, but he planted his roots right away. He could still go for the nomadic life, Derek reasons. You can pull up roots.

Stiles wouldn’t _plant his roots_ like that, Derek thinks, but then – didn’t he? Isn’t that _exactly_ what Stiles did?

Derek’s beginning to think the problem is with _him_ : not Memphis, or Beacon Hills, or wherever else he could run to. He takes another drag of his cigarette, and he throws it to the floor, and he stamps it out.

The building is a shithole, a short block that he thinks the city’s forgotten. Likely, it’s forgotten this whole area of Memphis. It’s ugly, and there’s a couple of kids in the parking lot kicking around a can despite the hour, and the smell of weed is so strong Derek’s sure he’s getting high off of it. Inside the building isn’t any better; it’s not covered in graffiti or piss, like a lot of the other buildings, but there’s a security guard who clips his nails at his desk, and the lights are yellow and flicker, and the elevator smells like death, like rot and mould, and a little sweet.

The break room – shared by all the offices on the floor, but Derek never sees any of the others – is a tiny kitchen with a couple of fold out chairs. Becky’s sitting on the counter, playing Taylor Swift out loud, and she’s got a pot noodle in her hand.

“Don’t you have a kitchen at home you could be doing this in?” Derek snarks. He reaches around her to grab a mug, turns on the faucet and rinses it out a couple of times, shaking it so hard he gets water droplets on his face.

Becky just shrugs. “Power’s out,” she says. “It’s, like, kinda hectic out there. Good night for poisoning. Hey, is this yours?” She holds out a piece of scrap paper.

It’s his; when Derek gets bored, he doodles. He’d studied art at school, and had thought to – well, he’d thought a lot of things back then, but now he doodles people on scraps of paper at a call center.

He nods. “It’s good,” Becky says.

There’s a pot of coffee that’s likely just sludge; Becky likes it ninety percent coffee and ten percent water, because she’s actively trying to die, Derek thinks. He really thinks. “I hate this job,” he grumbles, and pulls a face when he takes a sip. “Is this coffee? Or were you planning on calling in yourself?”

“If you hate the job so much,” Becky says, ignoring him, “just quit. You’re not even being paid. Quit whining.”

She hops off the counter and grabs her back, spooning noodles into her mouth. She doesn’t say bye.

∞

It’s a phenomenally shit night. Derek, really, should be fired; none of the calls he gets are remotely worth his time.

“No,” Derek says, his mobile in front of him and the call center phone tucked between his shoulder and cheek. He’s watching highlights of Toddlers and Tiaras on YouTube, and it really is more important than this call, “just because your pills say ‘consume orally,’ you were never going to get pregnant that way anyway. Okay. Yeah. Okay, have a–” Derek gapes at his phone. He may have, possibly, maybe, gotten a little too hooked on the __drama__ , she did __not__ , “have a – a good night, ma’am, hope to never hear from you again.”

The lady on the other side of the call starts sputtering, and Derek thinks that that’s the perfect time to hang up. Some goddamn people. It’s really something else, it sure fucking, Derek thinks.

There’s a lull in calls for a while, finally, and Derek kicks back in his chair and watches the rest of the video. Watches the clock – _fuck_ him, there’s still twenty minutes left of this hell shift, and it could literally not go any slower.

Derek’s phone dies. He reaches into his bag, and grabs a loose leaf of paper and a pencil, and starts doodling. Pretends the lines don’t have a curve to the nose, or long lashes, or moles.

Then – oh, and then – the phone rings again, and Derek hisses. The guy on the desk across from him – Aidan, a squirrelly Indian guy, who likely is on drugs every time he comes into the call center – startles and glares at Derek, but he just rolls his eyes and picks up the phone.

“Poison control,” Derek drawls, “what’s the–”

“ _I think I – my –_ _carbon monoxide poisoning_ _,”_ the guy on the other end of the line blurts.

Derek puts down his mobile, and ignores the look that Aidan gives him. “Why do you think that, sir? Can you tell me what happened?”

“ _I–I–”_

Great, Derek thinks. He’s got a panicker. “Sir, _breathe_.”

The guy’s quiet for a moment, then: _“I googled it, you know. I thought it was just a bug, like, a flu or something – but the flame in the hob is like, yellow, like when you’ve got a bunsen burner–”_

“Stay focused, please.”

“ _Right. Right. And there’s, condensation around the windows, and our wiring in this apartment block is real shitty, you know, I talk to the landlord about it all the time–”_

“Sir–”

“ _But he’s – you – okay, okay, and I – it was_ _just a bug_ _, but then you notice the_ signs _, and – and–”_ the guy gives a thin, whining noise. _“I don’t know what to do.”_

The call center is linked directly to a number of services, and Derek starts looking for the gas emergency helpline. He asks the guy for his address, which he rattles off – jeez, Derek thinks, this guy lives in the slums, huh. “Okay, sir, just stay calm. I want you to do exactly what I tell you to do.”

The guy breathes heavily down the line.

“First, you need to calm down. Open the windows, and leave your apartment. I’ve called an ambulance – you’re going to tell them you suspect carbon monoxide poisoning. Are you following?”

“ _Yeah.”_ His voice is scattered. _“Yeah. I can do that.”_

“Good,” Derek nods. “I’ve called the gas emergency helpline, but I want you to do something for me. I want you to knock on your neighbor’s door, and tell them to leave now. Can you do that for me?”

There’s a beat. _“Yes.”_

“Are you doing it?”

“ _I’ve just opened the windows now. I – I don’t know where my cat is, she’s an outdoor cat, she–”_

“She’s _fine_. She won’t come into the apartment if there’s gas.” Probably. Maybe. There’s a chance; Derek doesn’t know anything about cats. “Just go to your neighbor’s.”

He stays on the line and talks the guy down, until he’s breathing quietly and whispering, “Thank you, thank you, I’m outside now, I see the ambulance,” and Derek lingers on the line for a little longer, until he says: “I hope I don’t hear from you again.”

The guy snorts. _“Keep hope alive, I guess,”_ he says.

∞

Stiles isn’t at the diner that day. There’s a woman there, instead, with a shaved head and a lazy eye. Derek doesn’t stay for long.

∞

One time, Becky said to him: “You should play Candy Crush. Like, I really and truly believe that it’ll get the stick out of your ass,” to which Derek replied: “I’d really and truly kill myself before that.”

A couple of weeks after the carbon monoxide guy, Derek’s sat at his desk playing Candy Crush.

Stiles was off work for a while, but he’s back again (“Man flu,” he’d shrugged when Derek asked, “you know how it is.” Derek doesn’t. He has a fantastic immune system), and Derek even tried to sit next to Bernie one time. He got two steps towards him, and diverted to a nearby table. It’s not – Derek’s out of practice with talking, is all. He has the call center, and checks in with his family, and _Stiles_ , sort of, but other than that –

He’s out of practice.

It’s been a slow night, and Aidan’s been trying to get Derek to play I Spy with him for the last hour. He hopes someone’s about to poison themselves, he really does, because he’s about to do it his damn self. He’s weighing up the pros and cons of biting the bullet and killing _himself_ , or killing Aidan, and doing everyone a favor, when the phone rings, thank __god__. Derek loves the smell of poison to distract from his coworkers.

“Poison control, what’s the situation?” Situation, a nice neutral word. (“And remember, Hale,” his boss – who Derek’s seen all of twice, and one of those times was in a parking lot behind Target, smoking up – said to him, “don’t let them think there’s anything to worry about. It reflects poorly on us. And they might freak out, which kinda sucks too, or whatever.”)

“ _Um,”_ the voice crackles. This connection, Derek thinks, this fucking connection. He puts his mobile down. _“My friend brought home the wrong medication. And I – uh – it may have been consumed.”_

On the computer, they log all of the incoming calls automatically; if it’s not blocked, it’ll say how many times that number’s called into the center. It’s for reference, really – if they’ve called before, they’re a high risk caller, and prioritized. Usually suicidal, sometimes plain stupid. It really depends.

This number’s called once before.

“Okay,” Derek says, neutral, neutral, “your friend took the wrong medication. What did they take?”

There’s some sort of movement on the other line, like something brushing against the phone. It could equally be a gunshot, for all Derek knew with this line. He’s going to complain, likely, if he ever saw his boss, or thought that this place even actually had an HR department to speak of. _“_ _He?_ _ _I mean – uh–__ _”_ the guy’s saying. _“Something for dogs, I don’t – hang on.”_

Derek hangs on. “Sir?” he says, because it’s customary. Derek picks his mobile back up; he’s been stuck on this level for ages, now, and is busy __hanging on__.

“ _Meloxicam,”_ the guy says suddenly. Derek starts typing into the medication catalogue: M-E-L-O-X, “ _it’s an–”_

“Anti-inflammatory, how much did he take?”

“ _Like the_ smallest amount _, he stopped as soon as he realized it was animal shit – not, like, actual animal – not that – but he didn’t take a lot. He’ll be fine, right? Like we don’t need to go to hospital?”_

Derek rolls his eyes, and images death. “He’ll be fine. How did he get a hold of meloxicam?”

The guy’s quiet. Derek wonders if they stole it – does he care enough to call the cops? It seems like a lot of effort that he’s not really willing to put in.

After a beat, and another, he says, _“Scot-_ land _, uh, my boy Scotland,”_ oh, god help him, _“is a vet. Like an animal one, not a – you know. A military one.”_

“Okay.”

“ _Okay… so–”_

“Here’s the thing,” Derek interrupts, “meloxican for animals comes in a liquid form. We have the same thing for bipe– for humans, but it’s a pill.” He waits a second, frowning. “How could you – even bring it home, and then mix them up?”

“ _He was_ tired _.”_

“So he reached into the cupboard with all the animal medications and thought, yeah, this seems right? And your boy, _Scotland_ , he had to have you call into poison control – because _he_ was tired? Have I got that right?”

The guy doesn’t say anything, and Derek wonders if he’s contemplating calling in to complain. Whatever, Derek thinks. He’s just confirming the facts.

Maybe this is another one of those breaking points – maybe after this he’s going to move to Florida, or Maine. He’s always wanted to go to Canada.

“ _Yeah,”_ he says eventually, _“that’s about right. Look, is he gonna be alright or not? Should I call in for your_ attitude _?”_

Likely, Derek deserves that one.

“He’s gonna be fine,” Derek says shortly. “I hope we don’t hear from you again.”

He puts the phone down, definitely, absolutely with no more force than usual, and rubs his eyes. It’s been a long night.

∞

“You look like shit,” Stiles smiles at him as soon as Derek walks through the door. He scowls at Stiles, but it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest: likely, he’s too used to Derek, too comfortable, in a Derek will never be. Not with Stiles, not with himself.

“Thanks,” Derek rolls his eyes.

Bernie’s at the bar again – Derek doesn’t know when he became a regular, let alone a customer, but he’s always here now, and it’s… it’s not _bad_. It’s weird, sure, because Derek’s out of practice, and Stiles is – really, fucking really, Stiles is one of the only goddamn people Derek ever sees in this city, and it’s made him awkward and stiff in a way he was in California, and in ways he’s never been. But Bernie turns and nods at Derek, and Derek nods back.

Derek chooses a table – a little closer to the bar, a little, a little, a little – and doesn’t try to speak to Bernie, and Bernie doesn’t try to speak to him.

Stiles gives them both exasperated looks, and sighs, hands on his hips like he’s really got the whole world against him, like they’ve really done him wrong this time. He slides in the booth across from Derek, and leans in. “One day, you know,” he says quietly, “you two are gonna talk, and you’re gonna be real good friends, and you’re gonna thank me for it. And you’re gonna kick yourself for wasting your time.” He leans back again, looking satisfied with himself, like the cat that got the cream.

“And that’s a fact, now?”

“Yes,” he replies without any hesitation, nothing, just confidence and something soft underneath. “I told you, dude, I’ve got a sense for people.”

They look at each other, then, for a long time. It feels stupid: Derek’s not got his coffee, and Stiles has work to do. He wonders about the image they all make – three guys brought together by the same diner, and none of them saying a damn word to each other.

It’s – strange. Like they’re so close and connected, three strangers meeting at the same place at the same time in this whole city full of people, but they’re still just that: strangers. Derek wonders if it’s always going to be like this. If he’s always going to linger, and never say a damn word. It sounds lonely, but familiar. Like California, in a way.

Maybe there’s some things you can’t catch a flight away from, Derek thinks bitterly. Whatever, whatever.

“Can I get a coffee, please?” Derek asks, because it seems smaller, quieter, like something he can handle.

Stiles smiles at him. Derek wonders if he knows how beautiful he looks in this light. “Coming right up, handsome,” and he gets up and heads to the counter.

Derek flushes, but ignores it: “And hold the cream this time,” he calls after Stiles.

“Yeah, yeah.” Stiles’ laughter rings out, and Derek stares after it, after him. God, he thinks, he’s not sure what would be worse. Things changing, or things staying the same. Bernie turns and gives him a knowing look.

They don’t feel like strangers.

∞

“You know,” Stiles says later. They’re both standing in the alley out back, keys jingling as Stiles locks the back door. “All this time you’ve been coming here, and I still don’t know your name. You got me at a real disadvantage, man.”

Derek blinks. He knows, of course, that he’s never told Stiles his name: he just never thought that Stiles would have noticed.

“Derek.” The both of them start walking down towards the mouth of the alleyway. There’s the faint sound of music in the background; not jazz, but something bluesy, maybe. The lights remind him of that night, early on, when Derek had found that poster. “My name’s Derek.”

Stiles smiles at that, something small and private and quiet. “Derek,” he repeats back to himself, and nods. “I like that. It suits you. Have a good night, Derek.”

∞

The way Stiles said it, Derek thinks later that night, lying in bed and punishing himself, the way he said it, like it was something between just the two of them.

∞

Derek had bought a house, instead of renting one, when he first moved to Memphis. This should have been his first clue, maybe.

It’s out on the wayside, away from the bustle and noise of the city, a good walk from anything important with a quick route out and away from Memphis, but not far enough that it’s not worth the walk.

It’s big – not as big as the house back in Beacon Hills, but there’s still too much space for just Derek, with two bathrooms and three bedrooms and room after room that he’ll never use. It’s designed to look Victorian, in the trashy way that a lot of American houses are; that is, it misses Victorian by a few too many obvious decades, but it’s not – it’s not ugly, though Derek’s not the best judge of how nice it looks – he’s not decorated it at all, and barely has furniture. A nice, comfy chair that he sinks into – something he’d indulged himself in, because it’s too expensive, but it’s soft and blue and makes him feel smaller, and safe – and a mattress.

There’s a half-made wardrobe and a bed frame that he’s not even unboxed yet. _I could leave at any time,_ Derek reasons with himself every time he looks at it, _I probably won’t even stay here, anyway._ The whole point of this move was to be – be impulsive, spontaneous, do what he likes, and he probably won’t even stay here, anyway.

Derek was never very good at impulsivity. He bought the house, instead of renting it, after all.

He usually eats out.

The house is too big for just him.

∞

The call center had been quiet for Derek; Aidan had taken all the calls.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost, dude,” he’d said to Derek when he’d walked in. “Let me handle this for you.”

It would have been a nice thing to do, if Aidan hadn’t been twigged out and Derek didn’t think that Aidan would hold this over him for the next year, and it wasn’t just Derek’s face.

Year. _Fuck_ , but Derek’s planning on staying, he is, he is, and _that_ makes him nervous.

Oh boy, Derek thinks. Oh, boy.

∞

Bernie’s not at the diner, when Derek show’s up. He’s grateful, he really is: likely, if Bernie was here when Derek spoke to Stiles, Derek would kill himself.

It’s not that Bernie’s never been here when Stiles and Derek have talked – obviously, he has, but Derek’s just realized that he’s planning on staying in Memphis, and that, maybe that makes things different. He had a goal, and instead, he bought a house.

Stiles looks up when Derek walks in, the bell ringing as the door opens and shuts. Walking into the diner has always been a – particular feeling. Like the noise of the city sort of just fades away. The diner is, in a way, its own little world. A pocket. It’s nice, here – it’s got good coffee, and it’s cheap, and it’s got Stiles. _Stiles, Stiles, Stiles._

It’s a strange thing, really, for Derek – it’s not that Stiles is the only part of Memphis he likes, because that would make him coming to the diner all the time weird, and not in a I’m-on-a-journey-of-self-discovery kind of way. But Stiles is _something_ , that’s for sure, but Derek hasn’t figured it out yet.

(Or maybe he has, he has, he has, but he doesn’t want to admit anything yet, because that’s another house that he’s buying.)

“Yo, Der,” Stiles says. _Der_. God. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, man.”

Derek snorts. “I’ve been hearing that.”

Stiles smiles at him. “Listen, I’m just gonna finish up here–” there’s a coffee machine behind the counter that Stiles calls, not so affectionately, Vilde; Stiles is wiping it down. Derek sometimes feels that all Stiles does is clean: and yet, and yet, he thinks, “–and I’ll be right with you.”

“Is it against policy to push everything aside for a customer?”

“Nah,” Stiles throws Derek a grin over his shoulder, walking behind the counter. There’s something lopsided in his grin, like he’s not trying to do anything with his face, but it’s happening anyway. Stiles is carefree and comfortable in a way Derek doesn’t think he’ll ever be. But he wants – oh, he wants. “We’ve been quiet all day. I’ve been going crazy in here, you know. Cleaning, paperwork,” when Stiles rolls his eyes, his whole body’s involved, his head to his knees, “out – of – my – mind. The only thing I’m pushing aside is my inevitable suicide. And besides, you’re not just a customer.”

Derek sits at the bar this time, watching Stiles clean Vilde. He’s missed this, sitting at the bar. The booths created a degree of separation.

He read about those, once: six degrees of separation between everything and everyone. He wonders if there was maybe just one more between two objects, there would be nothing between them at all.

He wonders how many more he has left. Between him, and Stiles, and everything.

Stiles looks at Derek, and raises his eyebrows. “Weird,” he says blithely.

“What?”

“Oh, you know,” he shrugs. “Been so long since you’ve sat at the bar I barely recognize you there. I turn around, expecting you all the way over there – boom! Here you are again, at the bar.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m good, thanks.” They fall quiet then, going through the motions they always do: Stiles finishes cleaning Vilde, and makes Derek his coffee. Derek sips it, lingering, lingering, and watches as Stiles starts rearranging the mugs. He puts them upside down, and in a pyramid, and then puts them alternating upside down, and the right way up.

“They’ll gather dust if you leave them up like that. You really hate policies, huh.”

Stiles sighs, like he’s Atlas, and suddenly drapes his upper body across the bar, arms flinging out and head buried in the nook of his elbow. Derek moves his mug out of the way, slightly. “I’m gathering dust, Der, I swear to _everything_. All I’ve been doing is cleaning, and doing paperwork, and doing more fucking cleaning.”

Derek blinks at Stiles. “I thought–” he starts. This isn’t what he came here for. Derek wonders if that’s a good thing, or not, or nothing at all. “I thought you liked it here.”

“I do,” Stiles’ voice is muffled. “I just – I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be complaining like this to a customer.” He pushes himself up, and runs his fingers through his hair, like if he can just get his hair right there won’t be a damn problem any more.

“I thought you didn’t care about policies,” Derek says carefully, “and I thought I wasn’t just a customer.”

Stiles is quiet for a hot minute, gnawing at his lip. “I’m sorry,” he says again, “my dad used to always say I had a flair for the dramatic.”

“My mom used to say the same thing,” and his dad, and his sisters, and his uncle.

He huffs out a little laugh. “You’re probably thinking I’m crazy. Some mugs and I lose my damn mind. But it’s, like – when you shake a can of pop, and you keep shaking it and shaking it, when you open it, it just,” he makes his hands into fists, and opens them just as quickly, making a ‘pff’ noise. “You know?”

And Derek does, oh boy, does he.

So he says: “I moved to Memphis because my mom wanted me to grate cheese, and I bought a house.”

Stiles laughs, a full-bodied thing – he flings his head back, and Derek watches the long line of his neck. It breaks the tension that Derek didn’t even know had been created, and the diner is back to being a diner.

“I don’t know how that relates at all, man,” Stiles says when his laugh finally dies down, “but thanks, I guess. That made me feel better.” He sighs, and shakes his head. “Whatever. It’s – whatever.”

“It’s not–” Derek says. “I just mean – shit, sorry,” and this is the part he’s always been bad at. The talking. He’s glad that Bernie isn’t here. “My sisters–” Derek’s always been jealous of them, an ugly little thing, but it’s true, even if he wishes it wasn’t. “They travel, you know, and _they_ seem…” Derek tries uselessly for the word he wants, like trying to catch a fly in a room with high ceilings.

Stiles looks at him for a beat. “Free?”

Derek nods. “Yeah,” he says. “And I’ve – never felt that.” Not for a long while. “So I moved to Memphis. I had this big idea that I was going to chase the sound of jazz, and keep moving, but I hate jazz, and I bought a house.”

They fall quiet again, but there’s no motions to go through this time. It leaves Derek in an awkward position, halfway between this and that. They’ve never been in this place before. They’re breaking the mould, Derek thinks. Is that what he’s been looking for? Jesus, he doesn’t even know any more.

Then, Stiles asks, “Why would you chase something you don’t even like?”

Derek shrugs. “I don’t know. It sounded romantic. Like the sort of thing my sisters would do.”

Stiles stands there for a long time, chewing his lip. “There’s a jazz band coming into town,” he says. “I know you hate jazz, but I think it’d be good for you. I’m going with a group of friends – come with us.” He shrugs. “They’re good people. You don’t have to talk to them, or anything. But I’d like you to be there.”

Likely, there’s a long train of thought that Stiles had that led to this, a train of thought that Derek isn’t privy to. Another degree of separation, Derek thinks.

Derek presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He hates the sound of it, really – jazz, and people, and more people and more jazz, but Stiles wouldn’t offer like that if it didn’t mean something, would he?

Maybe, Derek thinks, maybe he doesn’t have to think so hard about it. Maybe he could stand to be a little more spontaneity.

“Okay,” he says, and Stiles grins and holds out his hand.

“Give me your phone.” Derek hands it over, and when he gets it back he has a new contact called ‘STILES’ with a bunch of four-leaf clovers after it. “I had the same idea, you know,” he says like he’s confiding something. Maybe he is. What does Derek know about him? “I came up riverside from New Orleans, thought I’d trace the birth of modern music or whatever. Start my own band,” Derek didn’t know Stiles played anything, “but then I found this diner, and then my dad moved, and,” he shrugs. “Settling down isn’t always a bad thing, and it doesn’t mean you’re giving anything up.”

∞

It becomes a thing. The texting.

It’s sort of a tether for Derek that he didn’t realize he needed. He spends all his time in the call center, or at the diner, or walking around the city. If he’s on his phone, he’s trying to avoid his family – he’s jealous, maybe, maybe, a hot, dark coil settled deep in his stomach, because even in Memphis he feels just the same as he did in Beacon Hills, maybe worse, maybe a little lonelier – and watching stupid, useless videos on YouTube. He doesn’t ever watch full videos, even: just the super-cuts.

But now – but now, Derek almost always has a text from Stiles to respond to, any time Derek’s free, and tempted to look through his Facebook feed again. It makes him feel a little less lonely, and a little more like he has a space in the city. He’s carving himself into it, by making friends.

His phone becomes another diner; the diner, Derek thinks, is a bubble, a private space for Stiles and him. It’s quiet, and isolated, and comfortable. And now Derek gets to carry that feeling around with him: maybe it’s not the diner, or the text, but Stiles, in the same way that the problem may never have been Beacon Hills, or Memphis, but Derek.

There’s something there, he thinks, but it’s big, and a little scary, and Derek doesn’t want to think about it.

∞

For Derek’s first date, he’d asked Laura for help with what to wear. Back then, he’d had too many clothes and his problems seemed so big.

Now, Derek’s got a problem the size and shape of Stiles, the city and him, but when he opens his wardrobe with a ball of anxiety – _I’ve got to impress him,_ he thinks, _and his friends_ – his clothes isn’t something he can worry about. He owns two pairs of identical black jeans, and a pair that’s a really, really dark blue, and about four shirts.

There’s one, buried deep in the back of the wardrobe, that’s a soft t-shirt that used to belong to his dad, from a Blondie concert. The printing is barely visible, and it’s covered in paint.

He’s almost disappointed. Derek had a wet dream where he called Stiles to cancel, _I’m so sorry, I was really looking forward to_ _that jazz band_ _– music that I love! – and big crowds, so sorry, so sorry._

“Fuck,” Derek says. He’s running out of excuses. Derek thinks about throwing himself down the stairs.

His phone chimes.

**Stiles: [16:16PM] Are you meeting us there or do you want to be picked up?**

**Stiles: [16:16PM] Also I saw a cat fighting its reflection outside the diner**

**Stiles: [16:18PM] Attachment: whenwillmyreflection.mp4**

**Derek: [16:22PM] I’ll meet you there.**

**Stiles: [16:22PM] Did you watch the video**

**Stiles: [16:24PM] Derek**

**Stiles: [16:25PM] Don’t sleep on this !!**

Derek snorts, and slides his phone into his jean pocket. It’s a mild day for Memphis, and Derek runs hot, but he’s still from the west coast and used to a little more heat, so he shrugs on his leather jacket. He wears the same outfit every day, with slight variations: is he going to wear a grey henley, or a black one? Black jeans, or really, really dark blue ones? But he always wears the same belt, and boots, and leather jacket. Jesus, Derek thinks. He’s boring. All the way to Memphis, and Derek is just the same as he was in California.

Just one leg, he thinks. He just needs to break one leg, or even an elbow. The stairs are right there.

“Oh, yeah, mom,” Derek mutters. “Memphis is going great. I’m really coming into myself. The arm? No, that was an accident. Real shame. Missed jazz night. Maybe next time. Those stairs are awful business.”

But there’s only so long Derek can put this off: he’s meant to be meeting Stiles at a coffee shop downtown, before going to the club where the band’s playing. He’s – _Stiles_ , Derek is looking forward to, but when Derek locks his front door behind him and starts walking down the street, he’s really considering going to the river and drowning himself, he really is, at the thought of the rest of this.

Maybe this, Derek thinks, is exactly the reason he’s still got that knot of jealousy. Whatever, whatever.

∞

The coffee shop isn’t one that he’s been to before, but it’s small, with only a couple of wooden tables. There’s vines hanging across the ceiling, and a shelf with blankets and a couple of books to the left. On the right, there’s shelf after shelf of brightly colored boxes of tea and coffee, and mugs that look handmade, and a tiny little boombox that’s playing Rihanna.

It’s called _plant cafe,_ with no capital letters, Stiles had said, but there’s no sign with the shop’s name on it.

“You have to know about it to know about it, you know?” Stiles explains. It’s a stupid thing to say, but plant cafe is down a little side road that you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t looking for it. It looks like it’s out of Harry Potter, or something.

Stiles asks Derek what he wants, but he doesn’t know his drinks beyond “black,” and adding the cream and sugar anyway, and “Becky, why the fuck,” so he tells Stiles to order for him. He grins, and says, “Take a seat, dude. Your life is about to change.”

The coffee’s nice – not just the drink, which is something sweet but bitter, and rich, and carries a nice aftertaste, but the… the _being here,_ with Stiles, is nice. Plant cafe is quiet, with Rihanna playing on loop softly in the background, and the bored looking guy, dark skin and darker hair, and light eyes, behind the counter is busy on his phone. It’s just Stiles, and him, and their coffee.

“It’s vegan,” Stiles interrupts himself, because he’s vegan and likely can’t help himself – they’d been talking about some new sci-fi show on Netflix, and Derek had actually been able to contribute something to the conversation, which was new, and exciting, and maybe he was a little too proud but he was about ready for a medal, or something. “Soy milk and shit. I’ve been weaning my way into it, you know, cruelty free living and shit.” He frowns for a second, and says, “Well, besides the diner. Meat is, like, half the menu there, and half coffee. But,” Stiles shrugs, “it’s a good job, and it’s good money. Whatever. This whole street is kinda great for that sort of thing, if you’re interested?” Derek isn’t. “Like, there’s a little Mexican place just next door that’s all vegan and halal and whatever. And there’s a clothes shop that’s great. Expensive, so I’ve never actually _bought_ anything from there, but if I was a _rich_ cruelty-free type, I would.”

“This place doesn’t really look like it’s trying to be found.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything for a bit, running his tongue across his mouth to catch some stray coffee. Derek absolutely, one-hundred percent doesn’t track the movement, except that he does, he does, he does.

“It’s found by the people it’s gonna be found by, I guess. It’s still open, so enough people are finding it.”

“Or it’s overpriced,” Derek mutters darkly. The guy behind the counter hears him, or just has a sixth sense for people running their mouth, because he shoots Derek a dirty look. Derek frowns, and looks back at Stiles. Oh, that’s worse, he thinks. That’s worse.

Stiles is laughing, eyes bright and grin wide, and Derek feels his heart clutch. “Maybe,” he says, “maybe. I just found it a few months ago. Wandering around, or whatever. You find some great things that way,” Stiles takes a long drag from his tea, and makes a face like he’s found God. “Fuck, but I’m glad I did.”

Derek wants to say a lot of things. Least of all, that he spent nights and weeks and months wandering around, and never found anything like this – though, he stuck to parks and main roads and industrialized areas, so maybe, maybe there’s something in that, about that. Least of all, that he found the diner, and Stiles, that way.

 _It’s found by the people it’s gonna be found by_. Derek wonders. He wonders a lot of things that he doesn’t know how to voice, not yet.

“I can’t imagine being vegan,” Derek says instead. He does that a lot, say things that don’t mean anything, when there’s something else entirely on his mind. He wonders if it makes him a coward, or anything at all.

Stiles snorts, and picks at the collar of his plaid shirt. He’s wearing it over a print-tee shirt that’s too faded for Derek to make out, and he wonders if Stiles always dresses like a twelve year old, or if he made a special effort for Derek.

“My dad had a heart attack, back in New Orleans. Nothing serious, don’t look like that, but it was – have you ever like,” he lifts his hands to the sides of his face, fingers spread wide, “just gone absolutely crazy about something? Like, totally psycho?” Derek has, oh, lord knows he has. He was crazy enough to pick a city and move, just because he was a little _bored_. Derek gets it, alright. “That was me. Like, total overhaul, defcon one, alarms, everything. Made us totally change our diet. Cut out meats and sugars and shit.” He shrugs again. “I didn’t want to lose my dad so I became a vegetarian. Hey,” Stiles leans forward, almost knocking his mug over. The guy behind the counter, with his sixth sense, glares at them again, “that’s kind of like you. One little thing and we have this, like, completely out of proportion reaction.”

“Your dad having a heart attack isn’t a little thing.”

Stiles just looks at Derek for a while, and Derek can’t read the expression on his face, and he runs his finger along the rim of his mug. “Neither is being jealous enough of your sisters to move to the other side of the country,” and it stings when Stiles puts it like that, like it’s a fault with Derek, but he’s not wrong, is he? Is he? “And yet here we are. One and the same.”

Derek wonders. Oh, he wonders.

∞

They meet Stiles’ friends an hour later, where they get ice cream from one of the other shops down that little road (“Try the vanilla with the Reece’s Pieces. It will change your life,” Stiles had promised, and it did) and walk up and down the main street, talking about this and that, everything and nothing: Scott and I – he works at the vets – share an apartment not too far from the diner. I have a house that’s meant to be Victorian. When was it built? The eighties. (Which makes Stiles snort, and Derek light up. As much as he’s capable.)

It’s nice, and it’s good, and it’s comfortable in the warm way only Stiles can make him. There’s a stone on a string hanging low in his stomach, and every time Stiles gets him to open his mouth and share something, it comes higher and higher, feels lighter and lighter. But he’s worried that he’s going to choke on it one day, still.

And Stiles is right; Derek meets the others outside of the club where the band’s playing, and they’re good people. There’s a tall, quiet black guy that introduces himself as Boyd, who shakes his hand a little too firmly, but Boyd’s face is steady enough that Derek thinks that that’s really just his grip, jesus.

There’s a woman, too, shorter than Derek but looks at him like she’s thinking about eating him up – or _eating_ him, he’s not sure. She’s got big blonde curls, and when Derek holds out his hand to her she doesn’t shake it. She just holds it for a very, very long time, until Stiles is interrupting with an “Ooookay, let’s end that right there,” and grabs Derek’s wrist and pulls him away from Erica.

He doesn’t let go for a long moment, and when he does, his fingers brush against the inside of Derek’s wrist. It’s – it’s a lot, is what it is.

“Scott and Allison were going to be here as well, but I figured you wouldn’t want to meet the whole gang at once. That’s a lie. They cancelled and then I thought, like, you know, ‘oh man, I bet Derek’s gonna be real glad he’s not meeting the whole gang,’ or whatever. They’re – it’s a sex thing, I don’t want to think about it.” Stiles winces, and twitches his head a little. “I hope you meet them soon. But not now. Not now.

“Uh,” Derek says. “Thanks?” He doesn’t know what to think of the meet them soon. It feels like permanence, like the house, but he thinks he likes this sort of permanence.

Stiles pulls a face and shakes his head. “That’s no problem. Club? Band? Cool!” He claps his hands together. “Let’s go!”

The club itself is fancy enough that he’s not sure how Stiles, dressed as he is, gets in – but he says something to the bouncer standing outside, and they’re in. It’s busy inside, and Derek’s hypothalamus is screaming ‘threat! threat!’, but Stiles just takes his wrist again, those long fingers warm against Derek’s skin, and drags him along. Derek knew – he knows, underneath that shirt, that Stiles has lean muscles running up and down his arms, has seen them when Stiles is scrubbing tables at the diner, and the way he handles Vilde, but the way he pulls Derek along, like he’s _nothing_ – that’s something else, it sure the hell is.

“Don’t worry,” Stiles whispers, leaning in close enough that Derek can feel the line of heat coming from his body. He hears Erica, and Boyd, and the rest of the club – distantly, in the background. “I reserved us a booth, you won’t have to sit with the rest of the plebeians.” He’s got a smirk on his face, and Derek rolls his eyes, but he’s stupidly glad.

The club opens up to a set of stairs that leads down, and ahead of them is a stage that seems bigger than the space it’s in, dark green with red curtains pulled aside, with a bunch of instruments Derek can only guess are jazzy. A double bass, a piano, some drums and saxophones or something – he’s really not sure. In front of it, where the ‘plebeians’ are mostly already sat, are a bunch of wooden chairs placed in rows. It’s a weird way to set up a club – but then, what does Derek know about jazz?

To the right, tucked away in the corner, is a bar with a dangerous looking bartender behind it, mixing drinks nobody’s asking for. There are private booths – silver couches in an almost full circle – against the walls and to the sides of the staircase. Stiles drags them over to one far away from the stage, and pushes Derek in. He slides in after, pressing his body to Derek’s side.

Erica shoots Derek a sly look, the corner of her mouth turned up. He’s still – Derek’s still not sure if she’s a cannibal, and the way she drags her tongue against her teeth has him worried, god.

“You’re going to enjoy this, you really are,” Stiles is babbling. “I know you don’t like jazz or whatever, but you’re going to, dude. Hey, where’s the band? Isn’t this meant to be starting now?”

“Quiet, Stiles,” Erica says. She leans over Boyd and rests her forearms on Stiles’ thighs, who looks utterly unbothered. Likely, this is a common occurrence. Erica seems like the type. “So, Derek,” she smiles. “What is it you do?”

“Erica,” Stiles warns.

She shrugs. “I’m just checking Derek’s the providing type.”

Derek looks at her unwaveringly. It feels like a challenge – his sisters used to do this. Staring contests. Whoever lost had to do the dishes. He got pretty good at it. “I volunteer, actually.”

“So you’re not actually earning any money?”

His mom still pads Derek’s pockets. He frowns at that; isn’t he out here to be more independent? And he’s still living off of his fucking parents. His _sisters_ don’t – Cora does stints throughout South America teaching kids English, and Laura works as a freelance photographer. They’re out there doing – doing _something_ , and Derek’s sat still in Memphis, convincing himself that the call center is what he wants to be doing.

“The band’s coming on,” Stiles says softly. When Derek looks at him, he’s already looking back, something unreadable on his face. As always, Derek thinks. As fucking always.

Erica’s frowning at him, but sits up obligingly as the band comes back on.

Derek picks at the skin around his fingernails underneath the table, feeling stupid for having freaked out like that over _money_. He’s never – lately, lately he’s been doing this, freaking out exponentially over the smallest things. Maybe it’s just like Stiles said.

There’s a stone hanging by a string, and it hangs low in his stomach.

∞

“You’re not enjoying yourself,” Stiles whispers, breath blowing against Derek’s ear. Stiles is still practically sat in his lap, and it’s been a little hard to relax like that.

Derek turns a little to Stiles, enough that he can feel Stiles’ breath against his skin, his lips, everywhere. It’s a lot. He could probably count all of Stiles’ eyelashes like this, this close.

He tries to swallow around his tongue. “It’s – I don’t like the sound of it. It… sounds like shit.” Maybe English was his calling. Derek could try his hand at poetry.

Stiles smiles, a little. “You’re not listening to it right,” he says, and presses his hand against Derek’s chest. Oh fuck, oh jeez, oh man. “You need to feel it. Here. Stop thinking so much. That’s not what jazz is about.”

Derek turns to fully face Stiles then, and he’s so close, so close, just looking at Derek, that small smile on his face, the lights from the stage reflecting off of his eyes.

 _Stop thinking_. That’s easier said than done. Sometimes Derek thinks that that’s all he does – overthink this, overthink that. Sometimes he thinks so much he thinks he’s going to break apart. He’d tried the not-thinking thing when he moved to Memphis, but it was awkward and stilted, and it had scared him.

One time, Derek had broken into the school pool. It was the single most rebellious thing he’d ever done, and Talia had lost her fucking mind, went completely berserk, but he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it. He’d just finished an art project, and felt like he was on top of the world, and had gone to the pool, and toed his shoes off but kept the rest on, and floated in the center for hours. Just hung there, suspended, until he couldn’t tell where he ended and the water began. Floated, and floated, and floated, until the lights had made his eyes blurry and faded into a flickering light show, fading in and out. He’d stopped thinking _then_.

He tries for it again, breathes in and out, and in and out, and watches the lights reflecting off of Stiles’ eyes, not blinking, until they start to blur and flicker and fade, and that’s it: that’s what Derek reduces his world to. His lungs, and the lights.

“Do you feel it now?” Stiles whispers, breathless.

Derek doesn’t know what he’s feeling, but it’s something, it’s something. It’ll do, maybe, maybe, hopefully.

∞

Stiles stretches out, and Derek winces at the awful cracking of his back.

“I’ve gotta head to the diner,” Stiles throws a smile at Derek, and points a thumb to his right, towards Erica and Boyd, who are a few feet away from them.

Derek shakes his head before he can think about it. He’s not got a shift today, and he thinks that there’s something he has to do at home, besides. “I’m this way,” he says, sorry for it.

Stiles nods. “Alright.” He looks a little disappointed, and shuffles his feet. “I’ll be seeing you, then.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of them move. Erica’s looking at Derek.

“You – I don’t–” Stiles huffs, and leans into Derek’s space, and kisses his cheek. “See you around, Der,” he grins, and walks away.

∞

Derek doesn’t move for a while, and when he does, he breathes in and out, and looks at the street lamps.

∞

At the call center, a couple of weeks later, Derek feels more restless than ever.

Maybe it’s because of Stiles; they’ve been texting almost constantly, and Stiles has taken to calling Derek at seven in the morning, when they’re both in bed after hours together at the diner. A big part of Derek feels stupid for it, pathetic – they’ve literally just seen each other, and they’re both dragging themselves across the floor for bed, three knocks from death’s door with exhaustion – but a bigger part likes the thrill of it. The way his stomach swoops whenever his phone lights up with Stiles’ name, and the way his voice sounds when he’s tired: scratchy, but still with that kind of liveliness Derek can only dream of having in his own voice.

Sometimes they carry on a conversation they were having in the diner – and Derek’s started talking more, even with Bernie there – or they’ll think of something new (books, maybe, or Stiles asks him about hypothetical situations – “If you were to have one superpower for a day, what would it be?”) or nothing at all. Just lie there, with the phone line tying them together, and enjoying just having someone on the other end of it.

Derek was never a big phone guy. Especially after volunteering at the call center. There was always that level of disconnect – a degree of separation. With Stiles, it feels like he’s broken that, a little.

It starts to settle something in Derek, makes him feel less like a live wire and makes him feel more like… well, it’s a sense of belonging.

But now whenever he’s at the call center, in the dregs of the city, he feels the same feeling that drove him away from Beacon Hills. Except, this time, he thinks that maybe the solution isn’t running away. He’d ran from California, and it hadn’t done anything, had it? But now – with Stiles – maybe he’s beginning to find a solution. Chipping away at the problem.

He’s still not sure what the problem is, exactly, but it’s with _him_ , and he feels it in the stone in his stomach, and maybe he doesn’t have to know everything, anyway. Maybe he can focus on his lungs, and the lights, whatever, whatever, and stop thinking for a little bit.

Aidan’s trying to talk to Derek about The Game that was on TV the other afternoon – talking about that one toss and did you see number twenty-four? Phenomenal! Derek can only assume that it was a great game, and he’s super proud– when the phone rings.

“Thank god,” Derek breathes.

“What?”

Derek ignores him. “Poison control, what’s–”

“ _Is it a bad sign, or just like, a ‘you could ignore that’ kinda sign if you – or just, I don’t know, anyone – take a couple too many painkillers – by accident! – and feel a little, uh, numb? Tingly?”_

He rubs his fingers against his brow, and wishes for death. He takes back everything about settling down and self-improvement, or whatever. There’s only one thing Derek needs, and it’s to die, immediately, right now.

“That’s what painkillers do.”

“ _I – well, I know that, it’s just – I don’t know – fatherly concern, or whatever.”_

On the computer, they log all of the incoming calls automatically, to screen for high priority callers. Usually suicidal. Sometimes plain stupid. This is the number’s third time calling. Derek tries to remember who they are – they all sound the same on these shitty lines, and it’s not like all high priority callers get automatically screened to Derek. He takes a stab at the plain stupidity.

“Look,” he says, patiently as he can (that is, not that much), “this is your third time calling. Is your child okay?”

There’s quiet on the other line, for a long time. Then: _“I don’t… have a child.”_

There it is. There’s always, every now and then, that moment where Derek dissociates from the horror of the people of Memphis. There it fucking is.

“You – how,” Derek’s voice fades off, and he really doesn’t know where to go from here. He thinks Becky’s right, and that he should just quit. “How are you alive?”

“ _You’re asking me, dude,”_ the guy says, and it shocks a little laugh out of Derek. _“Every day I have to wonder – is this a miracle or a cruel joke?”_ There’s some shuffling on the other side. _“Look, I should go. My shift starts in a little. Do you–”_ Shuffling, again. Derek stays still. _“You sound like you wish you were the one who’d taken one too many painkillers, if you know what I mean. As in, killing yourself. I mean–”_

“It would be irresponsible to work at Poison Control as a suicidal.”

The guy laughs, loud enough that it crackles through the phone line and makes Derek pull away a second. _“Maybe, maybe,”_ he says. _“_ _I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, I don’t know._ _Not killing myself – just, dissatisfaction, I guess. Do you like what you’re doing?”_

Derek doesn’t know what to say, and keeps his mouth shut. This is – this is new, and definitely _not_ protocol. There could be someone ringing up right now with a serious emergency, but Derek’s on the phone to a stranger and he doesn’t want to hang up. He looks over at Aidan, who’s disinterested and throwing a stress ball up in the air. No emergencies, then.

And it’s strange, it really fucking is. Derek knows these sorts: they call up and feel embarrassed and hang up as soon as they can, likely block poison control like that adds another – _another degree of separation,_ Derek thinks.

Maybe he could do with talking to a stranger, just for a little bit. He doesn’t want another degree, not from anyone. He’s lonely, and the call center has always added to that; for a moment, Derek can be part of someone’s life, and them part of Derek’s. But then it’s gone, and he’s lonely again.

Maybe that’s why he left California. His sisters had left, and all he had was doing what he was told. It’s not like he even had friends, back then.

Maybe that’s why he’s been feeling – more _anchored_ , with Stiles.

Yeah, he thinks. Maybe he could do with talking to a stranger. Just for a little bit.

“I hate it here,” Derek says, quietly. He looks at Aidan again, but he’s not paying any attention to Derek, even though they’re the only two in the office. “It’s – not what I thought I’d end up with.”

The guy snorts. _“I hear you, man. Is it ever? I thought I was going to be – well, what I’m doing is not where I thought I’d be at this time in my life.”_ Derek hears him breathe in, and out. _“I don’t know. We ended up somewhere, didn’t we?”_

Derek looks up, just over the top of his computer screen, where there’s a blank wall. Sometimes he stares at it, at the thin crack that runs down the length of it. They ended up somewhere, they did, of course they did, of course of course of course, but even still – “I don’t like where I ended up.”

He thinks of the pool, of his lungs, and lights.

“ _What’s in your way, then? Of getting where you want to be?”_

It’s a good question. It sure fucking is.

∞

Derek’s resolute to sit at the bar, next to Bernie – or, kind of near him. Maybe a stool or two down. It’s progress. It’s _planned spontaneity,_ which works, so it’s fine.

Except that Derek walks in and sits down like he’s about to ask for a double shot whiskey, or he’s a PTA mom, and doesn’t notice that there’s another guy, sat a stool down from Derek. He makes an aborted move to get up – two people? He didn’t plan for this. This isn’t the spontaneity he wanted. – when Stiles comes in through the back, smiling. _Okay_ , Derek thinks. Okay, okay, okay. He can sit here, at the bar. Linger. Whatever, whatever.

“Derek!” Stiles beams. “I just had a weird conversation that made me think of you. Or, I thought of you and had the – have you met my dad?”

The new guy – older looking, but Derek can see Stiles in the warmth of his eyes – turns to Derek and raises a hand. “Hey, son,” he says. Derek nods at him, and Stiles looks between the two of them, lips pursed.

“Derek’s the one I’ve been telling you about, Dad.”

“Oh?”

Stiles stares at him. And stares, and stares, and throws his hands up. “A man of so many words. You two would get along. Derek, you’ve met Bernie, right? Bernie, this is Derek. I know your memory isn’t what it used to be.”

“Quiet, Stiles.”

Derek huffs a tentative laugh that earns him a smile from Bernie. “Are you high?” he asks.

Stiles just rolls his eyes. “Killjoys, all of you. Have a coffee, you heathen. I’m gonna grab my paperwork from the back.”

“Thanks,” Derek wraps his fingers around the mug and lets it warm him up. Puts in some creamer, and some sugar.

Stiles just nods, and steps away. Stops. Says, “Hey, Derek? Do you wanna come through the back for a minute?”

Bernie snorts, and Stiles’ dad sighs and shakes his head, and Derek flushes. “I – that’s – sure, yeah.” This isn’t going quite like he planned. But it’s whatever. It’s working, he guesses. They’re ending up somewhere. They have to. It’s what people do.

It’s not the first time Derek has been in the office. It’s the owners, Bertha’s – “And she’s only, like, thirty, so who knows how she ended up with a name pulled ass-backwards out of the sixties.” – but Stiles is pretty much the only one who comes in here and does work, and it shows. It’s chaotic in a way that Stiles understands perfectly, and Derek has learned to know, with folders everywhere and color-coded post-its covering the walls.

There’s an ugly orange couch, with a tartan blanket and a couple of pillows – for late nights, Stiles had explained, and then laughed, because late night doesn’t mean what it used to mean for them – and pens and paper clips and a label maker that Stiles had, somehow, stained bright pink. It’s covered in Hello Kitty doodles, now. Likely, it’s Stiles’ most prized possession. There’s music playing in the background – rock, maybe, but too quiet for Derek to make it out properly beyond ‘not Sinatra,’ and there’s the smell of nail polish. A glance at Stiles’ nails – midnight blue, and sparkly – has Derek thinking that Stiles has been putting off work.

“Sit,” Stiles points at the couch. Derek does, and Stiles sits next to him, too close again. Just like the club. “I just had a real interesting conversation that I thought you might–”

“I’m quitting my job. Or my – my volunteering. At the call center.”

Stiles blinks. “I kinda feel like we’re on the same path here. Call center? I can’t exactly imagine you on the phone.” And likely, he can’t: he knows what Derek is like with him, and he knows what Derek is like with other people.

“Poison control. It’s – yeah, it’s shit.”

Silence. There’s a guitar riff, but Derek can’t make out the notes.

Stiles opens and closes his mouth, and opens and closes, and opens and closes. “Did you, um,” he tries. “You didn’t, by any chance, recently… get a call that – you know – _may or may not have_ – uh – encouraged you to quit your job?”

That – what? “What?”

He winces. “There is, that is, there may be a chance I took too many painkillers and called up and then – you know – I was thinking about you, and–”

“You’re the one that called up three times?”

“…No? Who’d call up three times?”

“Stiles,” Derek says.

“Yep?” Stiles asks. “Okay, I did, but – aren’t you glad? Isn’t that – that’s crazy, right?”

“Right.”

They’re quiet again. For a moment, Derek is back in the pool, floating and getting his clothes wet, and letting the lights blur his sight. It had just been after an art project, and he’d felt restless, but on top of the world. Free, Derek realizes abruptly, and content in himself. It’s not something he’s felt in a long time.

“Can I–” Stiles pauses, and breathes, and says, “why?”

Derek shakes his head. “It’s not what I want to be doing.” It’s a hard one to explain, and he’s not sure he knows exactly what led him to that breaking point. What led him to leaving California. But then Derek thinks back to when Bernie wasn’t at the diner, when Derek had sat at the bar again. How he’d wondered about what Stiles was thinking, and how he got from here to there, and degrees of separation. He’d wanted to know how Stiles worked, so badly, how he’d seemed to be so – so what Derek wanted, in more than one way. In every way, maybe. But maybe Stiles and he aren’t so separated, and maybe he doesn’t need to know everything. They’re just figuring things out. Ending up somewhere. It’s what people do. “I feel – I don’t know. Lost, maybe.” He swallows, and tries to figure out how not to choke on the stone. “I’m figuring it out.”

Stiles taps at his knees. “Have you – you know F. Scott Fitzgerald? Wrote The Great Gatsby?” Derek nods. “He was–” he waves his hands about, and Derek leans back a bit, and misses his heat terribly, “after the war, loads of creators were confused, and Fitzgerald and a bunch of other authors went away to, like, Paris or whatever, looking for some – romance, some way to make sense of the world. Reconcile what they knew and what they didn’t, maybe, I don’t know. They called themselves the Lost Generation. Or maybe someone else called them that. But they created shit, or whatever, and – I guess they found something in that. Listen, he wrote something called This Side of Paradise. I think maybe you’d like it. Read it,” he shrugs. “Or don’t. It’s your choice.”

And it is – it is, it is – and it’s a strange thing; up until now, Derek feels like all his choices have been governed by jealousy of his sisters, but he’s quitting his job, and he’s going to _figure shit out,_ and he’s finally, finally going to end up somewhere he wants to. And that’s all him.

“Thank you,” Derek says, and grabs Stiles’ hand. He smiles at Derek, and his hand is warm and a little rough, and he curls his fingers around Derek’s. “What’s with the music?” Stiles never listens to anything other than Sinatra, and he knows that Derek knows that, because Derek’s commented on it enough fucking times in the past.

Stiles looks a little surprised, like maybe he’s trying to figure Derek out, too, and throws his head back, and laughs. God, he’s beautiful. He is, he is, he is, Derek can hardly stand it.

“It’s Blondie. I was walking around, I don’t know, looking for something, maybe, and there was this poster looking for a drummer in a Blondie tribute band. It’s not jazz, but it’s music, and it’s getting there.” He shrugs. “Weird, right?”

It’s weird alright. Derek laughs, and he surprises himself with it, a full-bellied thing. Stiles raises his eyebrows, but he’s smiling, and Derek doesn’t feel that stone on a string any more.

“Yeah,” he agrees finally. “That’s weird. I didn’t know you played drums.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Stiles says, and it’s true. “But I’d like you to.”

Derek overthinks. He second-guesses himself constantly, and when he does something thinks, ‘that was wrong, that was wrong, I shouldn’t have done that,” but he says, “I’d like to, too,” and that’s the truest, surest thing he’s said for a long while. Stiles’ face lights up at that, and Derek wants to cry, he’s so gorgeous.

Derek had quit art after high school, because he’d been afraid. Of a failing career, of not being good enough, of not being his sisters. But he doesn’t want to work at a call center, or anywhere else but an art studio, and he doesn’t want to live out of his mom’s pockets. Maybe it’s crazy, and maybe he isn’t good enough, but he’s got to end up somewhere. It’s what people do. And maybe Derek’s feeling a little spontaneous.

“There’s something I’ve got to do,” Derek says, and Stiles nods, “but I’ll be back – I’ll call you. Go on a date with me.”

Stiles laughs. “That’s – yeah, okay,” he nods again, “I’ll go on a date with you, and you better call me.”

Derek always thinks too much – it’s his worst quality – but thinking got him here, on this couch with Stiles, so maybe he owes it a little something. Or maybe not. He doesn’t have to overthink things any more, because he’s decided he doesn’t want to, and it’s his choice. It’s his.

It’s so – it’s insane, is what it is, absolutely insane, but all of Derek’s choices led him here. He ended up here, and he’s going to end up somewhere else, with Stiles, and with himself, and with everything.

“I’ll call you,” he says again, and takes Stiles’ face between his hands and kisses him, because it kind of feels like something he should do, and a lot like something he wants to do, and Stiles smiles against his lips, and he wants to do it again.

Stiles laughs again, and wraps his arms around Derek’s neck, and pulls him in for something deeper, harder. Stiles licks at the seam of his lips, and slips inside. He tries to wrap himself around Derek, as much as he can, and Derek snorts and pulls at Stiles’ waist, and they keep moving and moving. Stiles pulls away, but comes back for another kiss, and another, and he’s laughing all the while. Derek realizes that he is too, quietly, and it’s weird. He hasn’t felt like this in a long time. Excited. Nervous. Sure and so unsure – but it’s happening. It’s happening.

“Call me,” Stiles says against his lips, “you’re crazy. And you kiss great. Wow. Call me. Don’t be long.”

“I won’t,” Derek promises.

∞

There’s something buried deep in the back of the wardrobe, that’s a soft t-shirt that used to belong to his dad, from a Blondie concert. The printing is barely visible, and it’s covered in paint. Derek pulls it out.

**Author's Note:**

> so a couple of things:  
> 1\. this little street that reminds derek of harry potter is based off of, visually, a street in exeter called gandy street. it's one of my favourite places in the city, and diagon alley is based off of it. so that worked out kinda crazy.  
> 2\. plant cafe is a real place and they have this drink called a piccolo that's pretty much like an orgasm in my mouth and it's on the cathedral square and is amazing and i love it. but you didn't hear it from me.  
> 3\. i wrote stiles to be jewish but never actually had the chance to properly include it - idk about #AllJewishFolk but my friend , who is practicing , never writes the word god. like she'll have to write g-d. you kind of get a hint at that with the godfather poster, which stiles would have laughed at and said "it's a joke from bertha. or not. i'm not really sure," had derek asked, but derek didn't ask.  
> 4\. if you're wondering why everything is repeated three times, like if i glitched or whatever, that's just something i do. i cut a lot of repetitions out lmfao but some i kept so like let that speak for itself i guess  
> 5\. i know a lot of people hate their writing and like .. i'm right there with you and i don't think this is great but i'm mostly just happy that i got a good prompt that i could actually write to. in retrospect i do wish i'd written something more cracky, but i can't write crack so like whatever i guess ... c'est la vie !


End file.
